Alpha King Threw Away His Mate For Being Infertile—Then She Returned With Four Powerful Alpha Heirs

Chapter 7

The head steward, reading the perilous political currents with the desperation of a drowning man, signaled the footmen with frantic, jerking gestures. Within seconds, five heavy oak chairs were hurried to the most prominent position at the grand dining table — directly across from the royal family.

Elena moved toward the table with unhurried elegance. She did not sit immediately. She waited until one of her sons — the one on her far right, whose jaw was a fraction sharper than his brothers’ — stepped forward and pulled the heavy chair out for her.

Only when she was seated did the four boys take their own places.

Their manners were not polished. They were militaristic in their precision. Not a single movement was wasted, not a single gesture was childish, and the cold weight of their combined presence settled over the royal table like a frost.

Aldric felt a bead of sweat slide down his spine. He practically dragged himself from the throne, Isolde trailing behind him, clutching their sniffling son to her chest. As he took his seat at the head of the table, he realized the geography of the room had fundamentally shifted. The courters, seated at their respective tables, had physically leaned their chairs away from the king and toward the banished queen.

Gravity itself had changed allegiances.

The first course was served in agonizing silence. Silver clinked against porcelain. The roasted pheasant and spiced wine tasted like ash in Aldric’s mouth. He stared at the boys up close, and the resemblance was violently undeniable — the aristocratic slope of their noses, the arch of their brows, the impossible silver-gray of their irises.

“They are well trained,” Aldric said softly, the words slipping out before he could stop them. He needed to categorize them. To diminish them. “Did you adopt them from the northern rogue territories, Elena? I hear they breed them quite disciplined up there. A clever trick, using glamour magic to mimic the royal eye color.”

Isolde let out a shaky, triumphant breath, clinging to her husband’s rationale.

“Glamour magic,” she whispered, stroking Theo’s hair. “Of course. How pathetic.”

Elena did not stop cutting her pheasant. She brought a delicate piece to her lips, chewed gracefully, and patted her mouth with a linen napkin.

“I have no need for magic, Aldric,” she said. “Nor do I have need for tricks.”

“Then what are they?” Aldric demanded, his voice finally cracking like a whip. “Because five years ago, my physicians declared your body a wasteland. You were incapable of carrying a single pup, let alone four.”

Before Elena could answer, the boy sitting directly across from him placed his fork down on the table. The motion was slow, deliberate, and entirely devoid of childish clumsiness.

He looked up, meeting the Alpha King’s furious gaze with terrifying placidity.

“With respect, Your Majesty,” the boy said. His voice was the soft, bell-like treble of a child, yet it carried the chilling, measured cadence of an ancient statesman. “The fault did not lie in our mother’s biology, but in the weakness of your blood.”

The entire hall collectively stopped breathing.

A five-year-old had just insulted the biological vitality of the Alpha King.

Isolde gasped in outrage. “How dare you speak to the king—”

“Quiet,” Aldric snarled at his mate, never breaking eye contact with the child. His chest heaved. “And what is your name, boy?”

“I am Cassian,” the child replied calmly. He interlaced his small fingers on the table. “And to answer your unspoken question — it requires immense, undisturbed magical latency to forge four alpha cores simultaneously. For three years, our mother’s body was dedicating every ounce of its energy to our conceptualization, sheltering us from the hostile, stressful environment of a pack that despised her. Your physicians mistook a miracle of supernatural conservation for barrenness. Because they, like you, lack the capacity to understand true power when it is gestating.”

Aldric’s mind spun. The logic was flawless — rooted in ancient shifter lore that only the highest echelons of the royal library contained. How could a child know this? How could a child articulate it with such devastating composure?

“You are arrogant for a pup,” Aldric rumbled, leaning forward, trying to cast his imposing shadow over the table.

Cassian did not shrink back. The boy sitting beside him — the one who had not spoken a single word all evening — reached over and picked up a heavy crystal water pitcher with one hand, showing an unnatural, terrifying strength for a toddler. He poured a glass of water for Cassian, utterly ignoring the king’s threatening posture.

“Arrogance is a flaw of those who must pretend to be strong,” Cassian replied, taking a polite sip of his water. “We are merely stating the facts. Our mother brought us here tonight not to challenge your throne, but to observe it. Thus far, we are profoundly underwhelmed.”

Aldric stood up abruptly. His heavy oak chair screeched violently against the marble, a sound like a war horn that sent a visceral flinch rippling through the seated courters. Cutlery clattered onto plates as dozens of elite wolves braced for violence.

The Alpha King stood at his full height, his broad chest heaving beneath his tailored midnight-blue suit, his jaw locked with suppressed fury. He stared down at the small, impeccably dressed child across the table.

Cassian did not blink. His glacial silver eyes reflected the candlelight with a chilling, ancient stillness.

“Aldric,” Isolde whispered, tugging at his sleeve, her face pale as she clutched the sobbing prince. “Aldric, please. The pack is watching.”

The pack was indeed watching. Aldric could feel the weight of a hundred gazes pressing against his skin. He could smell their shifting pheromones — the sour tang of confusion, the sharp sting of fear, and most damning of all, the subtle earthy musk of awe, directed not at him, but at the four miniature titans sitting across the table.

If he struck a child, even one radiating such impossible defiance, he would lose the respect of the elders instantly. A true alpha did not need violence to command obedience from a pup.

Yet Aldric felt entirely powerless to command the air in his own lungs.

Elena placed her knife gently across the rim of her plate. The delicate clink drew every eye in the room back to her. She looked up at her former mate, her expression one of polite, almost maternal pity — an expression that infuriated him more than outright hatred ever could.

“They do not judge your reign, Aldric,” she said smoothly. “They merely observe its mechanics. As for your hospitality, we are profoundly grateful. But please do not mistake our polite acceptance of your invitation for submission.”

She turned her gaze to her sons — a silent command passing between them — and instantly, as if orchestrated by a silent metronome, the dense, suffocating pressure that had been crushing the hall vanished. The sudden absence of the boys’ combined auras left the room feeling strangely hollow. Several wolves gasped audibly, slumping in their seats.

“We are not here to disrupt your son’s naming ceremony,” Elena continued, folding her hands in her lap. “We came to pay our respects, to show that the past is entirely behind us. If our presence is too distressing for your queen, we can take our leave.”

It was a masterful, devastating maneuver. By offering to leave out of concern for Isolde’s distress, Elena framed herself as the gracious diplomat and painted the royal family as fragile and easily intimidated.

Aldric felt a cold bead of sweat slide down his spine.

If she walked out now, taking those four identical miracles with her, the rumors would tear his kingdom apart. The elders would demand answers he did not have. The pack would whisper that the Alpha King had been terrified of his own bloodline.

“No,” Aldric said sharply. Perhaps a fraction too quickly. He swallowed hard, forcing his rigid muscles to relax, and slowly lowered himself back into his chair. “No one is leaving. It is a night of celebration. We will dine.”

Elena offered a serene, devastatingly polite nod.

“As you wish, Your Majesty.”

The remainder of the main course was a masterclass in psychological endurance. The elite members of Silverfall conversed in hushed, nervous whispers, their eyes constantly darting toward the royal table. The four boys ate with mechanical precision, their manners flawless, their silence deafening. They did not play with their food. They did not fidget. They did not even acknowledge the whimpering toddler across from them.

When the plates were finally cleared for the dessert course, Aldric knew he could not endure another hour of this public agonizing. He needed to fracture Elena’s impenetrable composure. He needed to understand the mechanics of this impossible reality away from the judgmental eyes of his court.

But before he could speak, the boy on Elena’s left — the one with a sharper, more observant gleam in his silver eyes — set down his fork.

“Alpha Dane has brought a border dispute before the crown,” Rowan said, his voice polite and utterly devastating. “As is customary during the naming ceremony. I believe the king’s judgment is required.”

He turned his silver eyes to Aldric.

“And I believe,” Rowan said softly, “that the king is about to make a very expensive mistake.”